Perception
by Sar'Kalu
Summary: OneShot. Perception (Definition): immediate or intuitive recognition or appreciation, as of moral, psychological, or aesthetic qualities. "It's all about perception, Sherlock, how one sees the world and how one is seen by the world. That is what you do, that is what others fail at doing, and that is why I know you better than you know me. Because I can see you, warts and all."
1. Chapter 1

**Title**

Perception

**Author**

Sar'Kalu

Summary

_Perception (Definition): immediate or intuitive recognition or appreciation, as of moral, psychological, or aesthetic qualities. "It's all about perception, Sherlock, how one sees the world and how one is seen by the world. That is what you do, that is what others fail at doing, and that is why I know you better than you know me. Because I can see you, warts and all." _

Disclaimer

BBC's Sherlock [Holmes] is the intellectual property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC and their various affiliates; Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J.K Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bro's and their various affiliates.

Rating

MA15+: implied and explicit sexual content;explicit language and violence; implied and explicit abuse, torture and blackmail

* * *

Not Just A Passing Desire

He was tall, taller than should have been possible under the circumstances of his childhood and he carried himself with a wariness and coolness that came after a life time of danger and abuse; that rose petal soft skin, coloured in blotches of blue, purple and yellow, fading like a rose in the autumn. Tilted almond shaped eyes like the rarest emeralds and hair like a ravens feathers; so dark, so dangerous. So mysterious. He wore a suit of black; a coat with tails and crisp cream shirt, ironed flat but creased through wear; a tie of dark green silk that shimmered darkly against the night, emphasising his mystique. Enthralled blue eyes tracked the man through the room, watching him dance that foreign, forgotten dance that he loathed so well, greeting dignitaries and lords all with just the right touch of respectful assurance and subtle mockery unseen by the fluttering foppish fools who flocked around him; clamouring about him, they seek his faint -barely there- approval and blue eyes laughed in derision as they failed. Those green eyes, so aloof and like his own, heated with cunning and intelligence swung about them all, seeing them for what they were, like only he and his brother could; and he knew that the other would never accept anything less but complete honesty.

He stood so tall, taller than he; dressed in an archaic woollen great coat of the darkest blue, easily mistaken for black. His shirt the colour of dried blood and rust, the neck open in a teasing glimpse of pale skin and the fluttering of a pulse point; hidden, temptingly, behind a cashmere scarf of navy blue, the colour of storm tossed seas and raging tempests. The colour of his eyes. A vivid warning to everyone and anyone of his passionate existence, hidden so well behind icy eyes and a cold demeanour but belied by quick effervescent movements and vicious, mocking smiles. Movements like quick silver carried him around the ballroom, long legs and arms carefully waved about in seemingly strange and foreign movements of wild excitement as he spun about in lighthearted and youthful wilderness; delighting in the open stares of the people who he scorned so openly and with cheerful abandonment, uncaring of their reprobation. The room which he dismissed in irritated disgust, his long fingers trailing along the smooth wood of the banister, oiled from greasy, slick fingers and warmly sleek beneath the pads of his hands; they were violinist's fingers, elegant and supple, made for caressing cool wire strings and trailing firm flat planes and passion heated skin; green eyes glowing with dark seduction as he watched the object of his obsession, sliding from the room with a possessive smile upon his thin lips. Such a contradiction of lazy excitement and beautiful cunning eyes with an all-knowing smirk adorning such fine aristocratic features; scorn, delight and brutal honesty all spoken in that deep velvet voice made for Shakespearian sonnets and ancient and famous ballads.

Sherlock Holmes, Heir of the Noble House of Holmes, elegantly slipped through the press of hot, sweaty bodies of inferior humans towards the man with mocking eyes of poisonous green. He had watched the enthralling man all night, enraptured by what he saw in those vivid eyes and disdainful smile; he usually scorned his brother's parties, hating the false words and frivolous boredom that permeated the ordinary gatherings. But tonight, tonight, he had found delightful entertainment in the youthful Lord who sneered at the useless butterflies around him all the while smiling, shark like and predatory in his gleeful derision. Sherlock had no doubt that the youth was far more than he appeared, but such strangeness and charm drew him in like a moth to a flame. Behind him, slate grey eyes watching in increasing concern, knowing the poisonous eyed stranger to be far more than idle entertainment; the man was dangerous perhaps even more so than he, and Mycroft Holmes dearly hoped that his beloved, stubborn baby brother did not do anything too rash and foolish even as he turned to greet yet another asinine guest.

Sherlock slipped outside the night covering his silent tracks, the shadows wreathing his thin, tall frame and drawing the intensity of his actions into her darkening folds; the gazebo, made of raw, unvarnished wood and trailing creeper vines, was covered in pale cream tiles that glimmered gently in the moonlight. While the dark sentinel shapes of the the landscaped trees rigidly refused to sway in the barely-there breeze, their twisted shapes reminiscent of the monsters underneath Sherlocks bed as a child, all rustling leaves and glowing red eyes brought about by an overly active imagination. Behind him, there was a scrape of a foot over cement and Sherlock spun around, his overcoat flaring dramatically about him and his aristocratic features bearing the vestiges of his silent surprise at being snuck up on, and stood in awe of the handsome visage of the man before him outlined in the golden light of the manor house.

"Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective."

The voice was a dark lazy drawl, all sophistication, intoxicating promises and seduction; beneath straight dark brows glowed a pair of impossibly green eyes that razored across his newly sensitive skin setting him alight in fascination. Sherlock breathed in heavily through his nose, finding that his pulse rate had skyrocketed from a simple sentence. The man, if that truly was what he was, stood several centimetres shorter than him, striking in his poise and figure. Sherlock drew in a second shaky breath, unable to employ his deductive reasoning while he was so off kilter, he felt like he was thirteen again, all gawky elbows and skinned knees being scolded by Mummy for falling out of the big oak tree again.

The man smiled darkly, a hint of a promise on those sculpted lips. "You followed me." A statement, an irrefutable fact and one that had Sherlock suddenly wishing to run from. It was perhaps in this moment that Sherlock regretted his fascination and wished himself once more among the fripperies and vagaries that so characterised the the social elite, where he most definitely didn't belong.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked bluntly, his voice slightly shaky despite the forced nonchalance he was attempting; green eyes slid down his bod in a very intimate manner, leaving Sherlock feeling naked and even more off kilter in his sudden vulnerability. He didn't appreciate that in the least.

"Following a man outside and you don't know his name?" The mans dark voice purred even as he smirked wickedly. Sherlock shivered under the heavy weight of that gaze, somehow, this man knew him, knew every intimate detail of him and found him desirous, even though Sherlock had never thought him much of a catch nor someone to be truly desired. Certainly, he was attractive, but then, so was Mycroft; and Mycroft at least was able to maintain a civil conversation without having to truly work at it, something Sherlock could never claim.

"Lord Hadrian Potter, at your service Heir Holmes."

Sherlock blinked in shock, no one called him Heir Holmes, because while it was his title, on a technicality only, it was generally accepted that Mycroft would marry eventually and have an Heir of his own; who was this man to declare him Heir when everyone else worked so hard to forget the younger disappointment of the Holmes Family. The man, Hadrian, seemed to know what Sherlock was thinking, and his lips tilted into a more genuine smile, one that lifted, for the first time, the mocking quality of his eyes and revealed the gleeful and wholly mischievous mirth that dwelt, hidden, in his emerald eyes. Sherlock's breath caught in surprise.

"How do you know me?" Sherlock asked finally, regaining enough self control to master his reactions some what. The thick black hair tangled around the handsome face, and the light from the windows threw Hadrian's visage into sharp relief, highlighting the thin aquiline nose and high, sharp cheekbones that spoke of good breeding. He looked a great deal like someone Sherlock knew, although whom, he couldn't put his finger on.

Hadrian paused in his silent approach of the tall dark man in from of him, the golden light of the manor house illuminated those innocent eyes and wary expression in such a tantalising way. Hadrian had felt nothing but desire and possession since he had seen Sherlock several months ago at a crime scene. The boundless energy for the chase and decisive derision for his colleagues intrigued Hadrian like no one else had managed to. Such a tall, dark, lonely man, a brave man, a strong man; a man who Hadrian could admit to more than a passing fascination and obsession, a man that should never be hidden behind such caustic derision he practised but rather shown and revered for the brilliant genius he was.

"We've met before; although at the time, you were slightly distracted." Hadrian admitted, corralling the skittish younger Holmes into a darkened corner of the patio, the pale tiles sliding beneath his feet. Sherlock was backing up in automatic reflex of Hadrian's crowding, the other man was too busy puzzling out Hadrian's words to notice that his back was now pressed firmly against a marble wall.

Sherlock frowned, absently registering the feeling of the cool stone against his lower back, wondering when he and this fey man had met before. The shorter man, was close enough to touch now, and Sherlock's brilliant mind was able to catalogued everything about him; with each piece of information threatening to overwhelm his carefully constructed mind palace. There was a light stubble shadowing his cheeks; just enough to emphasise the strong line of his jaw and the dip of his throat in such a tantalising way as to make Sherlock, who was usually asexual in all things romance, desire to drag his long, thin tongue over that fluttering pulse point and to taste the heady and alluring mix of expensive cologne and Hadrian's own natural musky scent; and while the cologne was not overly strong, it left the other man smelling of spices, sweat and sex tantalisingly mixed together; spicy, musky and mouthwatering. His tie had been loosened, revealing the jumping hollow of his neck, a dip that Sherlock was certain would deepen as Hadrian's head was thrown back in passion; the mere thought of which had Sherlocks heart racing obscenely quick.

Those impossibly glorious eyes swirled with golden hazel and dark blue to create a deep emerald that was blown wide with desire and intense possession; and as Hadrian leant in, his breath trailed along Sherlock's long graceful neck so that he could breath into Sherlock's suddenly avidly listening ears. Shocked by the intrusion, Sherlock replied before he could think on what he was going to say, which was very unlike him, and yet Sherlock could hardly bring himself to care as Hadrian's lips traced phantom trails across the shell of Sherlock's ear, never quite touching the delicate skin.

"I don't remember..." Sherlock gasped, going into shock from the sudden and not entirely unwelcome intrusion of Hadrian's presence.

Hadrian gave a dark velvet chuckle, a tangible sound that danced through Sherlock's senses, and Sherlock was overwhelmed by the combination of the closeness, the smell, and the intangible yet overwhelming knowledge that Hadrian was all but leaning against him as he breathed a reply into Sherlock's ears, Hadrian's voice was deep and the rumbling of his chest could be felt through Sherlock's suddenly obscenely thin shirt and jacket, along with the rapid beating of Sherlock's heart.

"You do not remember?" Hadrian drew the words out sinfully long, dragging them along Sherlock's already taut nerve points, abrading what little defences Sherlock had left; eroding them away like a house in a desert storm. "Should I be disappointed that you, who have plagued my every waking and sleeping moment, do not remember me?"

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, his chest inflating so quickly that it brushed along Hadrian's own. "No.." Sherlock breathed, his breath feathering along Hadrian's cheek bones, and Sherlock found himself leaning in, mesmerised by the indefinable pools of dark desire that were Hadrian's eyes. "I did not mean to cause any sort of inconvenience..."

Hadrian drew away sharply, and Sherlock instinctively moved to follow, only to find that the shorter man was now several paces away and hidden by cloaking shadows. Hadrian watched Sherlock as he hung halfway between standing and crouching, his body inclined towards his own and one long fingered hand held out to him, fingers flaring in supplication.

"Inconvenience, Sherlock?" Hadrian murmured softly, his tongue curling around Sherlock's name like a lovers caress. "You could never cause me an inconvenience."

Sherlock twitched in shock and thundering hunger at the sound of his name, so covetously said. "What are you doing to me?" Sherlock asked dumbly, his mind could tell, that scientifically, he was feeling an intense attraction to Hadrian, but not even Irene Adler had managed to make him feel this way. It was strange and illuminating to feel so strongly and so quickly. Sherlock could feel his pulse thudding enthusiastically in his neck and chest while his body felt like it was on fire, heat tracing along his lithe long form and pooling in his lower abdomen in ever increasing increments.

Hadrian smiled slightly, his eyes glowing with his own fervour and fascination as he took in the confused figure of Sherlock, and he stepped forwards gripping the other mans arm strongly, giving support to the wavering man. "Attraction at its most primal, Sherlock Holmes, that's what this is, that what you feel. You want me, as badly as I want you," Hadrian murmured, dragging in Sherlock's scent of tobacco smoke, the sharp smell sulphur, and clean soap. Hadrian drew back once more, determined to not spook the other man. "We will meet again, Sherlock," Hadrian murmured, unable to help himself and leant in to drag his lips across Sherlock's clean shaven jaw. "Until next time, little fey."

Hadrian spun and walked away, his dark form melting into the shadows like he had never been and when Sherlock finally regained enough control of himself to manage walking in a straight line, he was unable to find the other despite the straight path and impenetrable hedges. Above the patio the tall, slightly rounded figure of Mycroft Holmes stood in contemplation, his mind on a conversation held weeks ago with the enigmatic Lord Potter. Then it hadn't made sense, but now.. Mycroft sighed heavily, knowing that his foolish younger brother was going to be hurt once more, and Mycroft would be left to pick up the pieces once more. Hadrian Potter was well known for accepting nothing but the best, and while Mycroft might be fond of his brother, he was not idly given to whitewashing Sherlock's character which was caustic and defensive at the best of times. No, there was nothing Sherlock could offer the Lord of the most Ancient and Noble House of Potter and Black; nothing that Mycroft could think of at any rate...

_"Your brother, what does he do?" Hadrian reclined in the creaking black leather arm chair, his eyes glowing with amusement as he watched his counterpart behind his desk. It was a rare moment when the two men had an idle moment to themselves to discuss inconvenient matters that had little concern with their country._

_Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh, Lord Hadrian Potter was unnaturally interested in his younger brother in his exulted opinion, and Mycroft was not going to encourage such an unhealthy fascination that would only lead to his brothers emotional downfall. "He's a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He made the job for himself." Mycroft replied neutrally, eyeing the other man cautiously. _

_Hadrian smiled enigmatically. "He looks like you then?" _

_Mycroft frowned. "No, he's taller, thinner and a lot darker." Hadrian had leant forwards slightly, curious. "Like you." _

_Hadrian had leant back once more, falling silent, clearly disappointed in the lack of information Mycroft was willing to give up. Mycroft returned to his paperwork, his fountain pen tracing fancy loops and curves to his already loopy handwriting. The pair held an uneasy alliance, tempered by mutual respect and suspicion and the determined desire to not cause a civil war on British soil. They were firm patriots of the United Kingdom and beloved by their Queen and country, even if neither truly knew they existed._

_"I think I would like to meet him." Hadrian said finally._

_Mycroft raised his head once more, his pen unwittingly trailing ink through the document he had been annotating. "Who?"_

_Hadrian raised an eyebrow, silently reprimanding Mycroft's attempt at ignorance, it didn't suit him. "Your brother, the Consulting Detective; Sherlock Holmes."_

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A/N:

Out of curiosity, who would be interested in me continuing this fic; I have a few ideas that could work, but I won't do so if no one is interested.

Sar'Kalu


	2. Chapter 2

To my dear, inestimable readers,

Many have commented upon how I apparently 'missed' my posting of the first chapter twice. Let me assure you, it was quite deliberate. Not only did it alert those who I thought might wish to 'vote' as it were, on whether or not I continued this tale; but also allowed me to be certain that the minor changes within, truly occurred. I have had problems with this previously, and so, I trust that my valuable reader base does not judge me too harshly now?

Kind regards unto you all,

Sar'Kalu

* * *

Chapter Two

Confrontations

221 Baker Street was an old Victorian manor house that had, at some stage during the past century, been split into three individual flats, the ageing brick architecture was still slightly blackened from the remnants of the Industrial Age that the uniformed sandblasting couldn't remove. The front door was painted a dark blue, the brass plated numbers gleamed in the weak morning light as a BMW saloon automobile pulled up at the curb, the tinted windows were a tad beyond regulation and the black body paint was unmarked by anything recognisable. The driver leapt from the front of the car and swiftly made his way around to the rear of the car, and with economical movements, opened the rear door allowing a tall, dark haired gentleman with piercing green eyes to step free of the automobile. The gentleman wore a plain black, three piece suit that had the shimmer that all expensive materials were characterised by; the obviously well fitting shoulders of the jacket showed it to be tailored specifically for the gentleman's wear. The driver too, wore a fitted suit, if of cheaper make, and once the gentleman was free of the automobile, the driver shut the car door and remained leaning against the side, his restless eyes taking in everything around him.

"Stay with the car, Ashford," came the clipped directive as the gentleman turned to face 221.

"Very good, Mr. Potter." Ashford replied in calm, assured tones.

Mr. Potter, silver cane in hand, marched up to the blue painted door and lightly rapped upon the heavy wood, deliberately ignoring the curious looks he was garnering. This was a 'posh' neighbourhood and 221 generally had rare and curious guests appearing at all hours of the night and day; but none, save one, carried themselves in quite the same manner. Mr. Potter barely had to wait a minute before an older lady opened the door, her light blue skirt and white blouse neatly pressed and her hair done up in a tight, reserved bun. Square glasses perched upon her pert nose and blue eyes regarded her guest in astonishment.

"Good Morning, may I ask who you are?" Her voice was light and unassuming, the sort of kindliness that anyone's grandmother should have and polite in only the way a high society lady could manage.

"Hadrian Potter, Mrs. Hudson, I would ask but a moment of your time." Mr. Potter said lightly, very carefully leaning upon his elegantly carved walking stick, the silver wolfs head was in no way gauche nor inappropriate, instead was tasteful in every manner possible and drew the lady's eye with its unassuming ambience, as thought it was simply more than a subtle affectation of a young gentleman who wished to appear dignified.

"Of course Mr. Potter, but I must say, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson are out on a case presently, you shall have to wait alone." Mrs. Hudson said carefully, correctly guessing that the gentleman was powerful enough to cause her boys trouble should he choose.

Mr. Potter smiled carelessly as he stepped inside and removed his outer jacket with ease and grace. "I am not here to talk with the inestimable Mr. Holmes, rather, my business is with you, Mrs. Hudson."

"With me?" Mrs. Hudson inquired with surprise, her blue eyes widening. "Whatever for?"

"Shall we adjourn to a more private area, Mrs. Hudson?" Mr. Potter gently requested.

Mrs. Hudson flushed brilliantly, horrified in her lapse of manners; what would her Mother have said? "Of course, Mr. Potter, will you join me for tea?"

Mr. Potter inclined his head in assent as he took the tall wing backed armchair adjacent to the fireplace, it appeared to be untouched in favour of the floral pattern recliner with a crochet blanket of cream and green that lay, neatly folded, across the arm. A single dark wood coffee table stretched the intervening space between the armchairs and gleamed warmly in the firelight, despite it being a rather warm day. The lounge was decorated in subdued, elegant tones that gave an air of sophistication to the otherwise humble space, and Mr. Potter found himself quite at home amongst the careful clutter of an older woman's life.

"How do you take your tea, Mr. Potter?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she returned bearing a tray with a teapot and matching cups and sauces, lightly patterned with spiralling colours giving the impression of flowers and vines. A small silver dispenser of milk sat besides a silver pot of sugar cubes while a pair of small teaspoons rested neatly against the saucers nearby.

"A dash of milk, please Mrs. Hudson, and please, call me Hadrian." Mr. Potter murmured, accepting the delicate cup from the bustling lady in blue and white.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a small smile in reply but obviously had no intention of being so familiar with the well dressed stranger next to her as she set a plate of biscuits down. Confusion mostly ruling her expression as she took her seat across from him, a couple of biscuits in hand, her undivided attention upon him; Mr. Potter took a small sip, gathering his thoughts as he watched this older woman, the sophisticated and paternally disowned daughter of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, wondering where to begin.

"I have no doubt you are wondering why I am here and who I am to you, undoubtably what I am about to tell you will shock you, but I ask only for your momentary belief and good faith." Mr. Potter began.

Mrs. Hudson made a sound of agreement, and relaxed into her armchair. "Please go on, you have my undivided attention, Mr. Potter- Hadrian."

"My thanks." Mr. Potter murmured. "The beginning of my tale starts in 1921 at the birth of Marius Black to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, for reasons undisclosed it was discovered that the second son of Cygnus Black was ineligible to remain with his birth family and so, upon his seventh birthday, was disowned, placed with an orphanage and promptly forgotten about by most members of the the family." Mrs. Hudson drew herself up in indignation, evidently angry at the treatment of this man who she knew intimately well. Mr. Potter held up a hand to silence her. "All will be made clear soon enough, Mrs. Hudson, all I ask is for patience." Mrs. Hudson jerked her head in assent, and quietly sipped her tea in silent anger.

"Now, when Marius was old enough he married a Cynthia Gamp, another disowned member of a noble family and together they were very happy and neither knew of their illustrious heritage. In 1932 Marius and Cynthia Black brought a baby girl into the world and named her Martha; like her parents, Martha never knew of her noble heritage and grew up to marry a George Hudson, an American who lived in Florida, and for many years they were quite happy.

"What happened after is neither here nor there, Mrs. Hudson, Martha;" Mr. Potter said, staring into his cousins eyes with a surprising intensity. "What matters is if we go back before Marius was born to his sister, elder by two years, named Dorea. Like Marius, Dorea was a disappointment, but in an entirely different way.

"Dorea grew up with her family, knowing all the traditions and heritages that went with the Family Name, but rather than marrying the young gentleman her father, Cygnus picked out for her, Dorea fell in love with another man and eloped with him.

"Charlus Potter was a young man of significant fortune and his family was similarly entitled as Dorea's, however, unlike the Black's, the Potter's followed a different socio-political circle and were thus political enemies with the Blacks. Dorea and Charlus' marriage caused quite the scandal, or so I've been told."

Mr. Potter said all this in clear amusement, his green eyes shining with obvious mirth; Mrs. Hudson however, was getting a vague inkling of where this was leading to, and was staring at the young man across from her in hopeful regard. After her husbands subsequent fall from grace, -and didn't she regret marrying him?- Mrs. Martha Hudson had quite given up on ever having a family again, her own children blatantly refused to visit her and her nieces and nephews were likewise reluctant; George having left such a mark upon them all, that Mrs. Hudson felt quite alone at times. Had it not been for Doctor John Watson, the dear young man, and the irascible Sherlock Holmes, awkward genius that he was; she felt that she would inevitably have fallen to grief and sorrow long ago and now, here was a young man, elegantly dressed and staring at her in earnest hope and barely-there excitement, proclaiming her to be a long lost relative that he had, for whatever reason, tracked down to meet. Mrs. Hudson felt, at that moment, quite the upwelling of sheer relief and hope that it quite took her breath away, and yet, she dared not give up that newborn hope, tentative that it was, after all, Mr. Potter and her were strangers and for all her worldly knowledge and experience, Mrs. Hudson was too much of an optimist to believe otherwise.

"At any rate the result of Dorea and Charlus' union was my own father, Jameson Potter who caused his own scandal by marrying a woman of supposedly low birth, Lilian Evans. But then, the Potter Family has a history of marrying young and doing as they please." Hadrian's tone of voice was filled with justly felt pride for his family's beliefs and inherent traditional delinquency, as being in a high society family had a tendency toward rigid traditionalism where you married within certain circles and you better not complain otherwise. Mrs. Hudson hid a small smile at his lofty expression.

"I take it then, that we are distantly related?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, running through the family genealogy he'd just spouted off without so much as a by-your-leave. If she wasn't mistaken, she was the niece of Hadrian's Grandmother making then second cousins twice removed... Perhaps. Genealogy wasn't her strongest suit.

"Indeed." Hadrian agreed calmly taking a sip of his long forgotten tea, which despite the lengthy albeit mostly one-sided conversation, still steamed as if freshly poured. "My Godfather was my Father's first cousin once removed and also the Heir to the Family fortune; and, owing to a series of unfortunate events, he became my primary guardian sometime during my second year.

"Despite this, I was never placed in his charge as a friend of the family decided to give me to my Mother's family instead. It wasn't until I was thirteen that I met Sirius and by the time I was fifteen he had passed on.

"The point being," Hadrian said firmly, overriding Mrs. Hudson's automatic response of belated condolences, continuing on with his tale. "Is that long story short, Sirius, being childless, opted to make me his heir thus giving me Lordship over the Black Family alongside my more traditional title of Lord Potter."

Hadrian paused once more, sipping his tea in silence, letting Mrs. Hudson mull over the implications of that statement. She had a twice over lord sitting across from her drinking from her second best tea set with nary a blink of disgust for her current circumstances where she barely made ends meet, nor any unfavourable regard for her unfortunate marriage to the drunken and abusive American man she had met nearly sixty years ago. Instead, Mrs. Hudson was quite certain that Hadrian was here for nothing more than to meet her and possibly welcome her back into the family, something that she would very much appreciate.

"If I might be so bold," Mrs. Hudson began, wanting to clarify her suspicions regarding Hadrian's visit, and just when had the head of her apparently noble line gone from Mr. Potter to Hadrian? "Might I ask just what it is you want from me?"

Hadrian leant backwards in the tall wing backed chair, the late Master Marius Black's, and appeared quite at home despite appearances and Mrs. Hudson began to get an awful sort of suspicion about her cousins youth; that tight wariness about his eyes brought to mind her own children's expressions around their father when they were younger and her own when she had been married to him. Clearly, Mr. Potter- no, Hadrian, had not had an easy life and she felt something inside her click and sympathy flooded her. For whatever reason, Mrs. Hudson knew that the young man in front of her was desperately lonely, had little to no family and was simply seeking out more people to connect with. Something that she could quite understand.

"I want nothing more from you than you are willing to give, Mrs. Hudson." Hadrian finally admitted with a tired sigh, sinking deeply into the black leather. "My childhood was not a happy time for me and my ties to my Mother's family are quite firmly severed, while my Father's family are all but extinct.

Thus leaving me to connect with what is left of my Godfather's family; of which I have two second cousins I am not on speaking terms with as we are political rivals, and another, Andromeda, who is the grandmother of my own Godson." Hadrian sighed once more and met her blue eyes with weary green; the firm implacable mask fading away into the face of a young man who has grown up far too fast with far too little support behind him. "Simply put, I seek others to connect with and despite all my searching, you, Mrs. Hudson, were the only Black relative I could find who still lived."

Mrs. Hudson gave the strong young man a kind smile as she stood and moved over to him, "I would be glad to learn more of my Father's family, what little he told me sounded so grand." Mrs. Hudson murmured, squeezing the young man's shoulder tightly with her soft ageing hand. "Now, more tea?"

"Please." Hadrian agreed gratefully. "There is another matter that I would discuss with you, but I doubt I can cover it today. I have a board meeting in an hour or so, and I dare not be late."

Mrs. Hudson smiled charmingly at him as she poured him another cup of tea and nodded; "of course, dear, you're welcome at any time."

"I'll leave you with my number, so should you need anything, just let me know. You're a member of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black now, Mrs. Hudson, and any aid be it financial or otherwise, I am honour bound to help you with." Hadrian told her as he pulled out a pen and paper from his breast pocket ignoring the flash of slight resentment that crossed her face. "I can understand that you are an independent woman, Mrs. Hudson, but I'm sure you can understand that it's my duty to offer such things, even if you never accept them."

Mrs. Hudson sighed in bemusement, clearly belonging to an old world family would require some getting used to, although some financial aid would undoubtably be beneficial, particularly with Sherlock blowing holes in her walls all the time. As if Hadrian could read her mind, he chuckled and pulled a second piece of paper from his pocket and slid it inside the folded paper that held his e-mail and mobile phone number.

"What's on that second paper should have been yours regardless, I want no arguments." Hadrian said firmly. "If I find it not removed, I shall directly place it in your account anyway. No excuses." He smirked at her mischievously. "Oh, and next time we meet, I hope I can bring Andromeda and Theodore, my godson and his grandmother, to meet you?"

Feeling more than slightly overwhelmed now, Mrs. Hudson gave a short nod as her young cousin stood, towering over her shorter frame, and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. Bowing slightly, the elegant young gentleman let himself out, leaving Mrs. Hudson staring at the check in her hand in incredulity. Hers by right? What right? Was being a daughter of a noble house truly such a big thing? She would have to speak with Sherlock about this, she'd had her suspicions regarding Sherlock Holmes and his sophisticated brother Mycroft; she was fairly certain that both were noble born to say the least.

Mycroft Holmes placed the receiver of his office telephone back in its cradle with a pensive look, the rich looking office with its dark panelled walls and black leather arm chairs felt more like home than his flat in South Kensington; but then, he very rarely spent time at his flat, his job was far too important to leave alone, even for a single moment. The last holiday he'd had was in 2003 and that week America and Britain had gone to war with Iraq; he'd certainly learnt his lesson from that little hiccup; Her Majesty had not been well pleased with him at all.

Mycroft sighed heavily and glanced at his heavy silver Rolex watch, a gift from the previous Mayor of London who had thought him to be a particularly efficient secretary; Potter was late, as per usual, which meant that there would be another barely averted crisis in the wizarding world to deal with tomorrow. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and glanced at his computer, the flat screen glowed dully as the screensaver flashed to yet another picture of London's famous sights and attractions. Anthea's latest jest in an attempt to get him to lighten up; Mycroft felt his mouth quirk slightly in appreciation of his employees attempt at levity, Anthea was always going on about he needed to take more time for himself. The sight of the newly built Olympic theatre, however, swiftly soured the enjoyment; that was not an event he was looking forward to, particularly with the riots that had been occurring recently.

There was a gentle knock at the door and Anthea swept in, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits, her brown eyes solemn as she regarded her boss. Mycroft Holmes was the most dangerous person in the entirety of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and she most certainly didn't appreciate the young, upstart Lord Potter putting even more strain upon her boss than was necessary. The eldest Holmes appeared tired and Anthea knew that the man had not slept in nearly twenty three hours, and now he was going to have to deal with the young Lord who treated Mycroft as though he was a joke to be laughed at. No respect.

Anthea's mouth thinned as Mycroft's mobile chimed loudly in the silence and she watched as her boss checked the text with alacrity. The shadow behind the British Government groaned at whatever was said on the screen and wiped an hand over his eyes, the usually self-possessed man dismayed by the contents of a single text message. Anthea had a particularly bad feeling about this and was already reaching for her Blackberry mobile that rested against her right thigh in her pocket.

"Lord Potter should be significantly late today I imagine; please reschedule him for five 'o' clock this afternoon; although I doubt that he shall make it. It appears I'll be staying late once again." Mycroft directed tiredly; already today he'd had to deal with an impending war in Uganda which had broken out anyway; an insurgency in the Philippines which had thankfully been diverted and a protest turned riot in America regarding the new legislation introduced by their new President who wanted better health care.

It was days like these that Mycroft seriously wondered at his decision to go into politics. What was even worse, was that her Majesty would have to be alerted to the current situation and Mycroft would undoubtably take the fall for it because Potter would be far too busy at the Ministry putting out the usual fires and problems that cropped up far too often for a supposedly peaceful settlement. "And have the car readied, I need to see the Queen."

"Yes sir." Anthea agreed tonelessly, wondering what could possibly have happened now. She had never quite been able to figure out Lord Potter's involvement in the Government; his lordship was minor, an earldom if she wasn't mistaken but Mycroft seemed to take advice, however grudgingly, from him and both men were invariably at each other's throats during each fortnightly meeting. As it was, Anthea felt that Lord Hadrian Potter's high handedness regarding her boss was more than a little offensive; of course, she didn't know all the details but she certainly held no illusions as to the nature of Mycroft Holmes' job and at times, wondered if he didn't share it with Lord Potter; but of course, such a thing was utterly ridiculous. Surely. At any rate, Lord Potter's regular dismissal of her employer led Anthea to regard him with something akin to disdain despite be incredibly in awe of his presence and 'aura', as it were. Lord Potter and Mycroft both wielded the power of nations with grace and dignity while being utterly dedicated to their country, which was, in Anthea's opinion, Lord Potter's only saving grace.

As Mycroft straightened his tie and swiftly pulled on his jacket, collecting his umbrella from its stand by the door, his long legs carried him with efficient haste towards the exit of Number 10, Anthea scurrying close behind him, blackberry mobile firmly clutched in one hand. The driver was already waiting at the front of Number 10, and it took very little time to navigate London's busy roads to Buckingham Palace where the Queen was thankfully in residence. Mycroft did not have time for an hour long drive to Balmoral Castle where the Queen's preferred royal residence was. Equally thankfully, his Grace, her Majesty's consort, was not in attendance; as his querulous questions generally irritated Mycroft no end.

Her Majesty, by the grace of God, Defender of the Realm sat behind a mahogany and oak desk inlaid with gold and mother of pearl that had been crafted especially for Queen Victoria. Straight backed and severe, the Queen did not look appreciative of his presence and her sharp blue eyes had already picked up on his discomfiture. She equally noted that Lord Potter, who usually met Lord Holmes at this time each fortnight, was not with him and she felt that awful sense of sinking in the pit of her stomach as the door swung shut behind her most efficient official. "What is it now, Mycroft?"

"Your Majesty," Mycroft bowed deeply, he was genuinely fond of his Queen and found her to be a respectable and remarkable woman of strength and fortitude; despite this, he still felt a moments apprehension at forwarding such poor news to her. The Queen was, after all, an exacting person, as well she should be. "It would appear that the Ministry is once again in revolt. Lord Potter is in attendance and has charged me with informing you and your protection."

The Queen raised a slim eyebrow at Mycroft's diffident wording, guessing that 'revolt' wasn't even the half of it; but then, both Lord Potter and Lord Holmes were remarkably similar in their ability for understatement. She appreciated that most of the time, although, given the circumstances, her Majesty felt that a more accurate portrayal of the situation would not go amiss. Having said so, the Queen fixed Mycroft with a stern look, "I trust that should Lord Potter need your aid, Lord Holmes, that you will be able to disregard your feelings and help where you may?"

Properly chastened, Mycroft assured that he would and gestured for Anthea, who hovered just outside the Queen's office, to call for the Prime Minister into attendance. There was little doubt that Lord Potter would return at the earliest convenience, barely able to stand as he had nearly eight years ago during the first neo-Death Eater Uprising. The Queen would undoubtably wish to speak alone with the Minister for Magic and the Prime Minister and discuss their... many failings regarding the common people once more. It would hardly be the first time that the threat of royal interference had been required to keep both Minister's in check. Returning once more to the Queen, Mycroft set about explaining what little of the Ministerial revolt he knew while ensuring that the Queen was both armed and the Palace ready for any incidental assault. Incidental, because despite his dismissive regard of Lord Potter, Mycroft knew that the man was very much 'Queen and Country' like himself. One had to be when one held the position they did.

Three hours later a burnt, smoking figure stumbled out of the fireplace and collapsed at Mycroft's feet startling the Prime Minister into cursing in front of her Majesty. Heaving a heavy sigh, Mycroft bent down and hauled the young man to his feet and guided him to a nearby chair disregarding the stench of ozone and sulphur that followed in the young Lord's wake. Hadrian looked half-dead and there was a shallow cut upon one cheek while various scorch marks smoked unnervingly on his fine wizarding robes.

"I presume then, Lord Potter, that the insurrection has been put down?" The Queen inquired frostily, apparently not appreciating his current appearance. Lord Hadrian Potter held a dismaying lack of regard for his own personal safety and this was hardly the first time that the man had appeared before the Queen to report while in imminent danger of permanent injury.

"Yes Ma'am." Hadrian agreed tiredly, forgetting himself. "Left overs from fourteen years ago, apparently they wished to resurrect the Dark Lord forgetting that I not only killed him, but banished his soul as well. They didn't appreciate the reminder."

"Indeed." The Queen murmured, surveying her shadow magical government with a practised eye. "We are well pleased with you Lord Potter, although next time, try and come a little more appropriately dressed."

Hadrian tried to stand and bow but nearly keeled over instead. The Queen sighed and stared at Mycroft who had once again caught his younger colleague and steadied him. The Prime Minister was studiously staring at his feet, evidently feeling out of place among such august bodies as they; his elective position giving him very little sway among this particular council. Behind them the fireplace flared green once more and a more elegantly dressed wizard stepped free of the flames, his brilliant red hair gleaming like blood from the firelight.

"Ah, Harry, I presume you've filled them in then?" The Undersecretary for the Minister for Magic asked jovially, bouncing on his toes.

The Queen fixed the man with a stern glare, clearly disapproving of his tone, "Mr. Weasley, I do not require a lackey to fill me in, go back and send Mr. Shacklebolt to attend me at once."

Percival Weasley jumped in shock, having forgotten his relatively small political stature among the muggle world and immediately leapt to obey, nearly knocking himself out in the process. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt, third time elected Minister for Magic stepped free from the fireplace, a frown marring his usually smooth features.

"My apologies for my under-secretaries offence, your Majesty, I certainly did not send him to speak with you." Shacklebolt said in his slow, deep voice.

The Queen sighed tiredly and waved them all to seats, halting Mycroft where he stood. "Mycroft, take Hadrian and go get some rest, I am not unaware of your current health status and after receiving these reports I will need you both here with clear heads. It is late, go."

It was not a suggestion.

Mycroft inclined his head, and with little help from Hadrian, hauled the younger man from his seat and guided him out of the office, letting the door swung shut on the Queen's tirade. Truly, he didn't wish to be either Minister right now, the Queen had a rather terrifying temper when crossed. "Come along Potter, I'll take you home."

Hadrian Potter laughed slightly drunkenly as he leaned heavily upon his colleague and and shook his head. "Never expected to be trusting you enough to get me home, Holmes." The younger man slurred.

Behind the pair, Anthea followed closely enough without appearing intrusive, her ever present mobile shielding her face from curious servants and directing the driver to Lord Potter's nearest residence at Grimmauld Place. The current situation was a rare glimpse into the, frankly, confounding working relationship between Mycroft and Hadrian; which, admittedly, Anthea knew very little about. Her assumptions and presumptions were based on a limited amount of socialising that she engaged in while bringing the illustrious duo tea and biscuits during their bi-monthly meetings in Mycroft Holmes' office at Number 10, Downing Street.

Anthea observed her boss carefully manoeuvre the other gentleman into the limousine, one hand ensuring that the younger mans head didn't clip the roof and that he was safely propped up against the far door. Mycroft then swiftly followed his colleague, seating himself beside the raven haired Lord with casual elegance, not bothering to buckle either seat belt while Anthea hurried to join the driver up the front of the black automobile. It would undoubtably be a very long drive to Lord Potter's domicile.

"Lord Holmes, I don't mean to alarm you with my impropriety, but as it was a familial matter I believe my actions to be without disparagement," Hadrian blinked slowly, trying to focus his eyes on the man seated beside him. "As I was saying, your housekeeper, who I called upon earlier today, is a terribly polite and refined woman." Hadrian slurred slightly, straightening enough to peer at the bewildered Holmes Lord, his mind clearly running over the past twenty four hours in much the same way that he, Mycroft, did at night whilst in bed. "A very lovely lady indeed."

"Lord Potter, I don't have a housekeeper. . ." Mycroft trailed off, clearly confused.

"You do live at 221 Baker Street, do you not? I'm sure you mentioned that you lived near the centre of the city." Lord Potter said blankly while Anthea tried not to choke on the revelation that Lord Potter was once again getting far too close to Mycroft Holmes' younger brother, Sherlock. It would have been easy for a blind man to see the attraction between the strange pair during last years political Gala; and none had been more surprised by the honest attraction displayed by Sherlock Holmes than Anthea.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in sardonic acceptance, clearly understanding that no, fate hadn't finished screwing with him for one day and was still piling on the unpleasant surprises. "No. That would be my brothers residence." Mycroft informed his colleague carefully, surveying the younger man with a practised eye; noting the sudden, gentle flush of his cheeks and the dilation of his eyes at the mere mention of Sherlock's name. Perhaps Lord Potter's interest was more honest than he thought.

"Ah." Hadrian hummed lightly, appearing illuminated by that piece of information. "That was entirely unexpected, it would appear I did your brother a disservice."

"Disservice, how?" Mycroft asked warily, Hadrian was remarkably vulnerable in his current state and Mycroft was quite uncertain how to take it. Hadrian Potter was well known for being a vicious bastard with little to no morals, who would protect those he loved with a fervour that rivalled Mycroft's own; but currently the man was all wide eyed and gentle smiles at the thought of Mycroft younger and highly irreverent brother, who Lord Potter had only met once. Hadrian smiled and changed the topic, obviously unwilling to discuss the matter further to Mycroft's utter annoyance. This was his brothers life at stake, he did not appreciate an up-titty wizard poaching on his beloved brother who he considered his because he didn't think that there was anyone who would be half-way decent for Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson has more than one connection to the gentry, Mr. Holmes, and I trust that you will treat her correctly?" Hadrian murmured as the limousine pulled up outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, his current place of residence. Mycroft opened his mouth to question the younger lord further but was cut off as Hadrian slipped free of the automobile. "Until next time, Mycroft."

Mycroft slammed his mouth shut and ground his teeth together, ignoring the way Anthea was glaring after the bedraggled wizard who was hobbling up his front stairs in obvious pain. The man infuriated him like no one else could; not even Sherlock, who knew every single button to press, could aggravate Mycroft Holmes in quite the same way. Watching her boss' obvious aggravation, Anthea tried to not vacillate between amusement and annoyance; after all, she rather agreed with Mycroft in that Hadrian Potter was a very annoying individual; but then, no one by Mycroft Holmes could irritate Hadrian Potter in quite the same way either; and in that matter, Anthea believed them to be wholly equal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Family Matters

It was cold and wet, the sky an immutable steel grey and the persistent rain didn't appear to be in the mood to let up any time soon. Sherlock Holmes stood with his bare hands in his pockets, ignoring the biting cold of the harsh wind as he eyed the dead man at the edge of the pier. London's docks were always cold and miserable; today was simply more so. John Watson had deigned to accompany him on his venture today, having been visiting Sherlock at 221b Baker Street when Detective Inspector Lestrade had called. John was surely regretting his decision now.

The victim's M/O was similar to a case that Sherlock hadn't been able solve three years previously as he had been on the run and Scotland Yard had simply shelved it, calling it a 'cold case'. The victims blue lips and staring eyes bulged in a pallid face filled with fear, his suit was torn and stained with a dark substance that Sherlock had reasonable suspicion was blood. Despite his current occupation, Shelock found he held little taste for the chase of criminals currently, they were becoming awfully obvious in their attempts and his mind found more benefit and exercise in whirring and turning over the mystery of Lord Hadrian Potter, who he had met nearly fourteen months ago at a political Gala. If Mycroft knew the other Lord, he wasn't telling, going only so far as to warn Sherlock way from the other man.

Sherlock knelt by the body and trailed his ungloved hands over the soaking clothing, noting the stiffness and cardboard like texture of the fabric. "He was dumped out at sea." Sherlock announced, running his hands over the cranium, noting an odd hardness upon the crown of the head and then carefully turned the body over. The back of the body was undamaged, barring the occasional rent in the fine suit, and Sherlock turned the man over once more.

"Hit upon the head, not hard enough to kill, simply to stun. From the shape I would say a bat of some kind, cricket bat or perhaps a- no. Definitely cricket bat." Sherlock said swiftly correcting his original deduction, feeling the raised ridge and the slight indentation of a cut caused by the the raised back of a cricket bat.

Sherlock checked for an ID, and on finding none, checked the mans hands for any kind of marks. His fingernails were slightly ragged and discoloured, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. The victim had chewed his nails. "Discolouration of the fingernails suggests a heart problem, compounded by the overweight nature if the victim. He fought his attacker, but was over powered; there is severe bruising upon the upper arms suggesting that the attacker is a male."

Sherlock stood swiftly, towering over the body and sweeping his eyes along the harbour. "He's not been dead long, a day at the most, although only several hours in the water. Lestrade, you're going to have to trawl the mouth of the Thames, there may be more bodies out there."

The Detective Inspector nodded his thanks at Sherlock and started snapping orders to his subordinates. John stood a fair way away, he was no longer required by Sherlock, his expertise as a doctor was offset by Sherlock's new medical knowledge. Sherlock spared the man a small smile before loping towards the shallow rise that led up towards the city where a tall figure in a dark suit awaited him patiently beside a black limousine. As he started to leave, Lestrade called out his name in exasperation, and Sherlock paused, surprised by the caustic nature of the Detective Inspector's growling commentary.

"Mycroft's here Sherlock, you're not leaving me with him again!" Lestrade growled as he stalked over to Sherlock, his dark coat fluttering in the wind, a dark expression crossing his face.

Sherlock smirked. "Scared of a civil servant, Lestrade?"

"We both know he's not a civil servant." Lestrade grumbled, displeased by the rain that trickled uncomfortably beneath the collar of his shirt, as he watched the taller figure raise a dark umbrella in acknowledgement of Sherlock's raised hand. "You seem unnaturally forgiving of his appearance, what has happened?"

"It's Mummy's birthday dinner tonight, Mycroft is simply ensuring that I attend this year." Sherlock sighed, clearly disgruntled by his brothers constant George Orwell's Big-Brother-like behaviour. The younger man slid his gaze sideways, meeting the clear hazel eyes off his best friend, John Watson. "Otherwise I would be meeting John at '_Antonio's_', as is our usual on a Friday night."

John shared a quick grin with Sherlock; married life agreed with the blonde man and the slight tire about his normally trim waist line bore evidence of his marital bliss. "We all must do our duty, Sherlock." John teased lightly to Lestrade's amusement.

Sherlock twisted his lips in annoyance. "And yet no one else's duty requires them to spend time in my brothers presence." Sherlock sighed, having missed Mycroft's approach from behind him, while John watched in increasing enjoyment. As much as the ex-Army Doctor hated watching the Holmes brothers fight it out, he had to admit to having missed their caustic verbal battles.

"Nor with you." Came Mycroft's smooth drawl and Sherlock spun around in surprise. "Mummy is waiting for us, Sherlock, you don't want to _keep_ her waiting, do you? We don't want a repeat of last year, after all." Mycroft's tone was incredibly smug.

"You were as responsible for that just as much as I was!" Sherlock protested, his blue eyes heated as they glared at his brother, a gust of wind blowing his wild black curls back from his face, giving the youngest Holmes brother a wild and fey appearance.

Mycroft deigned to roll his eyes at his brother, amusement rolling over the three men before him like an inexplicable tide; Mycroft was in an unusually good mood and Sherlock ran his eyes over his brothers shorter, stouter form curiously, wondering at this strange good cheer that his brother was displaying so openly. John grinned even more broadly, Sherlock's narrowed eyes and carefully tilt of his head bespoke of thick suspicion while Mycroft was very clearly smirking cheerfully to throw his brother off, and John found the byplay beyond entertaining. It was a rare day that Mycroft Holmes 'got one over' his talented younger brother and even Lestrade was hard pressed not to smile broadly at the sight.

"Don't be a child, Sherlock." Mycroft drawled, his blackberry chiming loudly in his pocket. Blandly turning his bored gaze from his annoyed brother, Mycroft read the text with raised eyebrows, mouthing the words in silent incredulity. Hadrian wanted him to do what now?

Sherlock exchanged a curious glance with Lestrade while John practised his 'not a bit good' expression while watching Sherlock snuck up to his archenemy's shoulder and tried to read the text. "Hadrian Potter, isn't that the small time Lord I met last year at that boring political gala?" Sherlock demanded, torn between anger at the implication that his brother was in contact with the man who had so intrigued him and shock that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so hard to find the mysterious Lord Potter after all.

"Lord?" John mouthed to Lestrade who appeared to be just as surprised as the ex-Army Doctor.

Mycroft spared his brother a glance and inclined his head. "It is. He and I are... colleagues of a sort." Mycroft's mouth twisted sourly at the idea and he rapidly tapped out a reply, keeping the screen out of Sherlock's inquiring sight line. "It's none of your business, Sherlock, so keep that pointy nose of yours out of it."

Sherlock snorted and crossed his arms, pointedly screwing up his nose at his brother to show his annoyed disgust at the insult that he felt was lacking in imagination. The British Government should surely be able to do better. John sighed heavily and exchanged yet another meaningful glance with the Detective Inspector, frustration and irritation boiling beneath his hazel eyes.

"Will they ever grow up?" John muttered, drawing his coat tighter around him, thankful that the rain was lessening. It wasn't quite so cold now, but it was still far too unpleasant to be standing around outdoors when one wasn't truly dressed for it.

Lestrade bit back a laugh and inclined his head towards the still bickering pair. "We've known them for just over twelve years between us, and during that time has either of them given the indication or predilection towards emotional growth or maturity in their relationship?"

John barked a surprised laugh at Lestrade mockingly drawled commentary that sounded so similarly to Sherlock's own that he was unable to suppress his mirth. Lestrade grinned broadly in return and both men turned to see that the Brothers Holmes were staring at them in shock, clearly having not expected the teasing mockery they'd just been subjected to.

"He makes a fine point." John hastened to explain, unable to forget Mycroft's unique position in the British Government nor Sherlock's own ability to sneak into any building unobserved to extract petty revenge.

"You make us sound like children." Mycroft snapped, affronted.

Sherlock smirked in reply, "well you do act like one, Mycroft!"

Mycroft straightened his shoulders, staring down at the grinning trio. "That is quite enough. We are late, Sherlock, come along." With that, Mycroft stalked away, his shoulders stiff with affront as he walked towards the black limousine that waited for the two Holmes brothers at the road side.

Sherlock snorted at his brothers hasty retreat, Mycroft was so easy to rile. "Good work John!" Sherlock congratulated his friend enthusiastically before turning to Lestrade and smirking wickedly. "Your impression needs work."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's sharp call cut across any retort that Lestrade might have made and Sherlock swaggered away impressively, his long black coat flaring about his knees grandly and his blue scarf wrapped about his long neck, giving him a stately air. Lestrade rolled his eyes at the sight, amused by Sherlock's own tendency towards childish dramatics.

"They're a right pair, aren't they?" Lestrade commented to John who nodded in amused entertainment.

"That they are." John agreed, rolling his eyes as Sherlock paused by the car and rose a single hand in farewell. "But I wouldn't want to change either of them for all the world."

Lestrade snorted at the thought of actually being able to change either Holmes brother, but also silently agreed that John was right; melodramatic as they were, the Brothers Holmes were unique in a way that deserved acclaim, not change.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place had not changed much in the intervening decade and a half since the death of its former owner, Sirius Black. The interior was as dark and forbidding as it had always been; for the Lord and Master of Grimmauld Place, Hadrian Potter, was rarely in attendance. Any visitor who entered the dark and dank property was greeted by the tall portrait of the House of Black's most recent matriarch, who was just as horrid and feral in acrylic as she had been in life.

Mycroft Holmes knocked heavily on the front door, eyeing the flaking black paint and tarnished silver knocker that was in the twisted shape of the Black Family's Coat of Arm's. The door creaked open and Mycroft was greeted by the visage of Hadrian Potter, his whip thin body clad his usual black three piece suit and emerald green tie.

"Lord Holmes." Hadrian welcomed the elder man, ushering him into the darkened hallway; the smell of must and dust permeating the air.

"Lord Potter." Mycroft murmured, following the other man into a dingy parlour where a tall stately woman at in an armchair by the fire. The mouldering wallpaper was green and silver, a long detailed tapestry occupied one wall and Mycroft traced the intricate detailing of names and dates to the very beginning, noting with some surprise that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was well named. Hadrian could trace his unbroken lineage back at least a thousand years. "A most impressive house you have here."

"You are too kind, Lord Holmes," the woman said softly, her deep blue gown and unbound and silver threaded black hair giving her an elegance and nobility that suited a queen. There was also a deep abiding sadness in her eyes; eyes that spoke of great love, greater loss and a remarkable bravery to resolutely moving onward despite everything thrown at her. Mycroft found himself bowing to her, respectfully deferring to her noble bearing and calm presence.

Hadrian smiled gently at the elder woman and swiftly moving to her side, "Mycroft, this is the last true daughter of the Black's, Andromeda Tonks, grandmother to my heir and godson, Theodore Lupin."

Mycroft's brows darted up slightly in surprise; this was Andromeda Tonks? The guide and political teacher of the greatest warlock that the British wizarding world had ever produced? "A very great pleasure to make you acquaintance, my Lady." Mycroft said smoothly, covering any surprise that he might have portrayed.

Andromeda smiled in delighted surprise. "I see my nephew has been telling tall tales again." She laughed richly, tossing her head back and allowing the elegant line of her neck to draw attention to the brilliant necklace of fire opals and black diamonds that rested about the creamy, unlined column. Not for the first time, Mycroft felt a stirring of jealousy for the longevity of the magical population.

"Nothing that wasn't true, Aunt." Hadrian denied, eyes sparkling in mirth as he gestured for his guest to seat himself opposite the last of the Blacks. "Theodore should be arriving soon," Hadrian murmured, pulling out a heavy gold and silver pocket watch from his waistcoat. "I shall return shortly."

Mycroft watched his host escape the mildew infested parlour while Andromeda stood and made her way over to a sideboard. The rich, dark wood was warmly lit by the bright open fire, and the cut crystal glassware glinted cheerfully as she decanted the blood red wine.

"To your health, Lord Holmes." Andromeda smiled.

Mycroft accepted the glass and with a deeply appreciative sigh, took a sip. He did love Hadrian's taste in wine, he wasn't not sure which winery supplied the beverage but he was more than slightly suspicious that the wine was magical in quality. "I have always wondered where this wine come from, it is singularly exquisite." Mycroft drawled, rolling the wine about the glass and watching it slowly drain down the sides.

"It's elven wine, made in the family winery in Tulles." Andromeda replied, eyeing her own glass appreciatively. "It has been nearly sixty years since I have tasted it. My father tried to disown me, thankfully Uncle Orion wasn't nearly as purist as Father and decided against it."

Mycroft was quite uncertain how to reply to such a heavy non-sequitur, and was pleased to fine he didn't have to when Hadrian re-entered the room with a sixteen year old boy in tow. Dressed in fine, black wizarding robes trimmed with red and gold, the youth had black hair and sharp grey eyes with aristocratic features. Mycroft couldn't deny that the boy was a Black, his features told that story for him quite explicitly.

"Theodore, this is Lord Mycroft Holmes, a minor secretary in the non-magical British Government." Hadrian introduced the boy to Mycroft, his green eyes serious and unamused. Mycroft felt that the boy might be at _that_ age, where he was bucking any attempts to reign him in by any kind of parental figure. No doubt, Hadrian, a man who hadn't been parented by anyone, felt out of his depth. "Lord Holmes, my godson and heir, Theodore Lupin."

Mycroft raised himself to shake Theodore's hand and was impressed by the strong grip. "A pleasure, young Theodore, your godfather speaks frequently and quite highly of you."

"Likewise, Lord Holmes." Theodore had a rich tenor voice that spoke of speech and political training, clearly Hadrian hadn't been joking when he had named the youth his heir. "How are things at Downing Street?"

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in amusement and a faint smile crossed his thin lip. The youth had clearly seen, much like his godfather had when he and Mycroft had been introduced close to ten years ago, that Mycroft was no more a secretary than Hadrian was. "Tolerable, as always." Mycroft answered. "And how do you find Hogwarts?"

Hadrian leant against the mantle while Theodore seated himself next to his grandmother, the older lady reaching over to grip his hand, pride and love shining in her silvery orbs. Hadrian also appeared to be pleased and proud of his godson, although he did not relax an ounce as he watched the careful conversation between his three guests and as a knock sounded at the door, Hadrian leapt into considered action.

"Please, excuse me."

Mycroft watched the younger man leave with wary eyes, he had been called here to help transition Mrs. Hudson into the Black family and Mycroft was quite unsure of what to expect.

"That must be Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft observed redundantly.

Andromeda made a noise of agreement and rose to collect more glasses. "Will she take wine or tea, do you suppose, Lord Holmes." Andromeda inquired politely.

"Tea, certainly," Mycroft observed; "and please, you and Theodore both must call me Mycroft, today is a day for family and such formality will never do."

Andromeda smiled in agreement, her eyes darting to Theodore who was staring in boredom at his feet before slipping out to summon a cup of tea for Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft leant back in his chair and stared into the fire, wondering just what was keeping Hadrian and Mrs. Hudson so long while Theodore sighed heavily and picked at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. Mycroft, reminded of his younger brother, hid a small smile of amusement and retrained his eyes on the door as Andromeda bustled back in.

"There we are." Andromeda commented blandly as she set a silver tea tray on the coffee table by the fire. "Tea enough for everyone." Indeed, Mycroft observed enough tea for at least six people, which was far too much considering that they had already quaffed a glass of wine each; Teddy excluded. "There you go, Theodore," Andromeda murmured as she handed her grandson a cup; noting his expression, she smiled thinly. "You can go back to school in about an hour."

Theodore accepted his tea quietly and leant backwards, unaware of Mycroft's steady observation.

Mrs. Hudson entered the parlour before Hadrian, her nervous eyes flicking over the dark and dreary interior of the house, her, companion, a tall thin man, followed close behind her. Mycroft barely escaped groaning in exasperation as Sherlock slunk into the room with suspicious eyes. Andromeda's eyes darted between the chagrined Mycroft, the oddly triumphant Sherlock and the bemused and uncaring figure that was Hadrian as he leant against the door.

"It appears we have one extra for tea today, Andy." Hadrian commented idly, his eyes alighting upon Sherlock who seemed torn between attacking Hadrian with many a question and trying to remove his clothing with nothing but his eyes.

"So it would seem." Andromeda agreed, quickly taking charge of the situation. "Mrs. Hudson, please, have a seat here. Mr. Holmes, beside your brother please; Hadrian, we don't have enough chairs, be a dear and fetch some would you? Would you like tea, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes?"

"Please." Mrs. Hudson breathed, a little in awe and disgusted by the Black mansion.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust and declined automatically, stiffening when Mycroft insisted. Theodore blinked in surprise as he watched the elder Holmes override the younger and burden the younger with tea and biscuits while ignoring the angry glares and frustrated huffs directed his way.

"You haven't eaten in three days, Sherlock, even you need food sometimes." Mycroft stated firmly even as he acepted another glass of wine and savouring the first sip with exaggerated delight. "This truly is a fine wine, Andromeda." He complimented once more to Sherlock's incredulous irritation.

"Then you shall take a bottle home with you when you leave." Andromeda decided, sharing a stern glance with Hadrian, who had returned with a bottle of clear liquid and a squashy chintz armchair of brilliant scarlet and gold. "Really Hadrian, that colour is awful!"

Hadrian grinned unrepentantly and exchanged a smirk with Theodore, who appeared happier now Hadrian had returned. "Well now, introductions I should think." Hadrian said enthusiastically as he collapsed, completely without dignity, onto his armchair. Sherlock blinked in surprise, the man who had so captured his attention at the gala had been all refinement and sophistication; however, he now appeared to be no more special than John Watson. "Sherlock, Martha, you both know Mycroft, the young man on the couch there is Theodore Lupin, my godson and heir. The dignified lady beside him is his grandmother and my second cousin, Andromeda Tonks.

"Andy, Teddy, this is Mycroft's younger brother, Sherlock Holmes, he's a consulting detective and Martha Hudson who is our cousin through Marius Black who was Pollox's younger brother."

"Pollox, that's Aunt Walburga's father, isn't it?" Theodore asked, frowning.

"No, Aunt Walburga came from the other side of the family, she was Cassiopeia and Alphard's daughter." Hadrian explained.

"Other side of the family?" Mrs. Hudson asked in confusion, the names and relatives flying over her head in a whirl of details.

"Yeah," Theodore wrinkled his nose. "Uncle Harry says that Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion were first cousins."

"First cousins?" Sherlock echoed, disgusted.

"Come now Sherlock, incest was a common practice to keep the family bloodline pure, even we Holmes' practised it during the sixteen and seventeen hundreds. Though not so recent as the Black's," Mycroft added, smirking at Hadrian, who rolled his eyes in reply.

"Enough of this, I had hoped to instruct Mrs. Hudson on everything that being a Black, and yes, a Potter too entails, however, I was not aware that Mr. Holmes would be accompanying her." Hadrian began, raising an eyebrow at the unrepentant Consulting Detective. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the brazen triumph that was written all over his brothers face. "Despite this, I believe I will go ahead anyway. . ."

"What?!" Mycroft yelped, startling in a completely undignified manner, staring in shock at Lord Black. "You cannot be serious."

"I can, and am." Hadrian replied nonchalantly.

Andromeda frowned, deciding that the one-upmanship between Mycroft and Hadrian had gone on long enough. Besides, certain things that Hadrian had told her were now clearing up to leave a very different picture than she had assumed. "Enough. Hadrian, are you certain about this?"

Hadrian met her clear gaze resolutely, there was no doubt, no apprehension in his green gaze and Andromeda found herself reassured by his determination. "Yes."

A single word, and yet, both Mycroft and Andromeda were certain that Hadrian had just indicated something far more than simple assurance about telling Sherlock Holmes and Martha Hudson about magic; no, there was something more, something irrevocably life changing in that one word. A promise, an affirmation that left Mycroft feeling cold and uncertain about letting Sherlock enter into this dangerous man's world; but it was too late now, it had been decided and Sherlock wouldn't rest until he knew everything.

Hadrian breathed in and solidly looked into Mrs. Hudson's eyes with firm belief and resolve, while somehow including Sherlock into his certainty and assurance. "Magic is real."

Chaos erupted.


End file.
